


Fifth House Farm

by beyondtheskyline



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Abigail and Magnus love broken children, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Coping, F/F, Harrow the Ninth References (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Ianthe gets her redemption arc, Mentions of Suicide, Trauma, ianthe is still awful, idk how farms work please bear with me, juvenile delinquents, slowish burn griddlehark, you can fit so much ptsd in these girls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondtheskyline/pseuds/beyondtheskyline
Summary: “The house itself was built from stone, but was so large Harrow let an involuntary breath of air escape her mouth. The barn was, well it was a barn so it was doing its job. The van chugged through the open gate and up the winding driveway that split the land in half. The house loomed above them as the metal contraption came to a stop five feet from the door.As the trio disembarked, Harrow was hit by the realisation that this was really happening. She was really going to work on a farm, with strangers, for over a year. Her hands quickly became cold. Before Harrow could change her mind, the van was already running as quickly as it could back down the lane.They had officially arrived at Fifth House Farm.“ORA group of teenagers, turned unlikely friends, learn that healing comes in many forms, and through trials, hardships, love, and friendship they’ll overcome their demons.ORThree juvenile delinquents are sent to a farm to work. Things quickly get out of hand.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 43
Kudos: 93





	1. The Farm

**Author's Note:**

> I have adjusted some ages for the sake of the fic. I also do not know how farms work so please bear with me as I research the heck out of what farm life is.

Harrow shuffled her feet against the road, kicking occasionally at the two duffle bags next to her. One held state sanctioned clothing and hygiene products; the other held all her worldly possessions. It wasn’t much, but these two bags were the culmination of the last eleven months she’d spent at Canaan Juvenile Correctional Facility. And her sentence wasn’t over yet; if anything, it was just getting started.

Harrowhark Nonagesimus was being sent to a farm. A real, fields-and-barn, animal filled farm. Her counselor had recommended her for the program, calling it a way for her to become reacclimated to the real world before her sentence was up. 

Harrow thought it was the stupidest idea ever. 

Who looked at dusty plains full of crops and animals and thought ‘hey, that looks like a good place for juvenile offenders to be rehabilitated’? Harrow tilted her head back towards the sky which was of course overcast. It was like the sun chose never to shine on the facility she’d called home for so many months. She could still see the fenced area where the outdoor activities were held. Fuzzy figures wearing the greys and whites of Canaan moved about, but Harrow didn’t feel like trying to pick out faces, so she kicked her bags again and jangled the cuffs on her wrists. Another 15 minutes and they’d be off for good.

“Can this damn bus arrive any slower?” Harrow’s roommate for the past eleven months, Ianthe Tridentarius, groaned as her guard dropped her roughly onto the bench beside Harrow. “My hair is going to get frizzy with all this heat!” She wailed. 

“Your hair has less will to live than I do, Ianthe,” Harrow griped. “I think you’re fine.” The pale girl rolled her eyes but didn’t bite back. Both of them were exhausted, having been dragged from their room at 4 AM and barked at to get dressed and packed. Two hours later, after piles of pamphlets detailing their new hell had been dumped in their laps, they were minutes away from feeling semi-freedom for the first time in nearly a year.

Well, for Ianthe it had been far longer. 

Harrow’s sentence was only two years. She’d deserved it, but she didn’t like to think about what she’d done for it. Ianthe, on the other hand, had been in since she was 14. Now 17, she was staring at the surrounding land like it was Mars. Her deep purple eyes traced over the distant mountain region as if she couldn’t understand where it came from. 

Harrow had admired those eyes since day one when she’d be dumped into their room, mascara still stained on her face from crying the whole ride up. Ianthe had been so comforting to her: teaching her where not to sit in the cafeteria, protecting her from some of the crueler inmates, and listening to her when she’d stayed up all night unable to sleep. They’d forged an odd friendship of sorts through the past months.

Considering Ianthe was serving time for vehicular manslaughter, maybe she wasn’t the best person to call a friend. But Harrow couldn’t afford to be picky. It wasn’t like she’d ever had friends before. 

The warden checked off some more paperwork before leading out the next member of their farm gang: Coronabeth Tridentarius. Ianthe’s sister in crime, and the belle of Canaan. By far the most gorgeous inmate, she was also the one with the nicest room and the best privileges. Harrow didn’t even want to think about how she’d managed that, but if Ianthe was to be trusted (for the record, no) Corona knew how to work her body. Even now the voluptuous blonde was glowing, and despite her Canaan outfit still being on, she was beautiful. The pants gripped her legs and accented the curves around her hips and thighs. The jacket was off, discarded somewhere, and instead her (surprisingly) toned arms were on display as well as her chest in a plain white tank top. She stretched, reaching her golden skin to the sky, and glimmered like the sunlight that refused to shine down. 

Harrow couldn’t stand her. 

“I adore quant little farms!” She said cheerily as she readjusted her cuffs, the metal less tight on her skin than on Ianthe and Harrow’s. “The early morning sunrises, the bales of hay, the gentle breeze making the crops dance—“

“The heat, the sweating, the labor,” Ianthe continued. “I hate this idea.”

Corona  _ tsked _ and nudged her sister’s shoulder. “C’mon Ianthe. Don’t tell me the idea of waking up and looking out a window without bars doesn’t thrill you.”

“Don’t tell me the stench of cow shit thrills  _ you _ .”

The twins stared each other down and Harrow awkwardly squirmed on the outskirts. She busied herself by trying to pull her black jacket tighter with her wrists nearly conjoined by the cuffs. It was the only piece of clothing she’d been allowed to keep from the outside world, and even though it was ripped, faded, and too thin to be adequately warm; it was hers. The white t-shirt and thick jeans she wore were identical to Ianthe’s, but it was a horse race as to who looked more like an emaciated twig in them. 

The warden, a decent if strangely talkative man named John Gaius, set down his paper stack and jangled the literal keys to their freedom. “Now, I know your counselors have gone over the rules with you three multiple times--”

“But you’re going to repeat them ad infinitum,” Ianthe finished with an eyeroll. 

Gaius chuckled. “Good, so you know how this works. Alright girls, I’m extremely happy that you three are getting out of here. The rules are very simple: you’ll work on the farm, you’ll avoid breaking the law, you’ll attend therapy, and in return you’ll serve the last thirteen months of your sentences in the open air and not an institution. Pent and Quinn have worked with our program for many years, and the majority of their kids have gone on to live fulfilling and law-abiding lives!”

“So let me guess,” Ianthe sighed and attempted to cross her arms, “no friends, no sex, no fun, no speaking out of turn, church every other day?”

“They’re not uptight.” That was the only comfort the warden offered. He began to unhook their handcuffs and Harrow felt like she was in a cheesy movie montage. When the metal links fell away and Harrow’s hands were free, she rolled her wrists a few times marveling at how different bare wrists felt while waiting for a bus versus waiting to be taken from her cell. 

The institution hated when the kids called them ‘cells’, which just made the term more popular. 

From down the long and dusty road, a white dot was steadily growing. The bus looked more like a van, but Harrow was fine if it was a carriage pulled by pigs. Anything to get her out of this place.

“They have three kids of their own,” Gaius continued. “All adopted. One is eighteen and the other two are fourteen, but I think you’ll all learn to get along.”

_ Oh joy, do-gooders with a habit of helping unwanted kids,  _ Harrow groaned.  _ Why don’t they just end world hunger and save the sea turtles while they’re at it? _

Ianthe gathered up the single backpack of stuff she had while Corona struggled with a grand total of three. How the two sisters had managed to spend the same length of time behind Canaan’s walls yet had vastly different amounts of luggage baffled even Harrow. The white van took more form as it puttered closer to them. Harrow’s heart beat against her breastbone like it was a wardrum. That imagery wasn’t helping her nerves. 

“Don't screw this up, girls,” John Gaius unhelpfully called. “I don’t want to ever see you three back here, no offense,” he added with a smile. 

“Good riddance,” Harrow grumbled as the clunky van came to a stop in front of them. The door creaked open and a man who looked like he’d cultivated the first land on Mesopotamia met their eyes.

The driver (did his name tag really say ‘Crux’?) and Gaius had some conversation while the three girls settled into the ratty seats that smelled like mothballs and old gum. Harrow promised herself she wasn’t going to get sick. She shoved her two bags under the seat in front of her where Ianthe had stretched out her absurdly long legs. Corona sat across the mini aisle from her twin and propped up her chin to look out the window. 

The van door shut with a whine, the van pulled away, and Harrowhark Nonagesimus was unofficially free.

* * *

Turns out, being free is boring.

The hour and a half ride to the farm left Harrow dreaming about watching paint dry. The scenery outside looked like something straight from a Hollywood green screen. The houses sitting on emerald lawns were painted stark white and had trademark oak trees smacked beside them. Occasionally a child wearing a flowy sundress would be running along the sidewalk with a dog happily trailing behind. Harrow was three seconds from going back on her promise to not get sick. Ianthe’s gentle snoring told her what the ghost girl was occupied with, but Corona kept gasping and squealing like a toddler in a pet store. 

The mountains were steadily approaching as the van navigated through small towns and valleys. From what Harrow’s counselor had told her, Fifth House Farm was in a well known farming town nestled in the shadow of the popular tourist-filled Dominicus Mountain. The mountains in question weren’t steep and intimidating, rather they were flat topped hiking mountains Harrow knew were popular among nature lovers. She personally despised nature and saw it as highly overrated. 

Corona on the other hand kept babbling about how excited she was to do literally anything. See the animals, hike in the woods, drive a tractor, grow crops, blah blah blah. Harrow wished she’d been allowed to bring a pillow. Not to sleep--sleep was impossible--but to smother Corona. 

Sadly, murder fell under the category of ‘breaking the law’. Even if it was a Tridentarius.

“Oh, I bet they’ll have horses!” Corona squealed. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride a horse!”

Harrow shrugged and  _ thonked _ her head against the window. “Shouldn’t be hard. You have experience riding everything else.”

Corona’s lips parted for a second as what Harrow said sunk in, but instead of mercifully strangling her, Corona burst out laughing. “Look at you, growing a sense of humor!”

“Your sister has clearly rubbed off on me--shut up I know what I said!” Harrow snarled as Corona snickered again, then thankfully left her alone.  _ I hate them both,  _ Harrow sighed as she pulled her legs to her chest and waited out the rest of the ride. 

Harrow must have fallen asleep because when Corona shrieked, “We’re here!”, her head painfully smacked off the window. As she rubbed her sore cranium, Corona was busy shaking Ianthe--who looked just as annoyed as Harrow--and pointing at the approaching land. 

It looked just as awful as Harrow thought it would. 

There was a fence wrapped around the property which was larger than Harrow imagined. To the left were fields filled with crops of some kind, meanwhile a large barn and a three story house were on the right. Pastures were behind the crops and Harrow could count two horses lazing around in them.  _ At least Corona will be happy. _

The house itself was built from stone, but was so large Harrow let an involuntary breath of air escape her mouth. The barn was, well it was a barn so it was doing its job. There were other smaller farms around Fifth House, but none were as large. The van chugged through the open gate and up the winding driveway that split the land in half. The house loomed above them as the metal contraption came to a stop five feet from the door. 

As the trio disembarked, Harrow was hit by the realisation that this was really happening. She was really going to work on a  _ farm, _ with  _ strangers, _ for over a  _ year _ . Her hands quickly became cold. Before Harrow could change her mind, the van was already running as quickly as it could back down the lane. 

They had officially arrived at Fifth House Farm. 

The house had an idyllic wrap around porch and a cheesy swing hanging in front of large display windows. Through the tied back curtains Harrow could see an open concept living room and two bodies dashing down from a hidden staircase and to the door. 

The first people out were the owners of the two bodies: a boy and girl who looked like they’d barely heard of puberty. Their faces were covered in black makeup and their ears were decorated in metal studs and rings. The girl had deep brown skin and unruly curls tied back by a blue bandanna. The boy was lighter skinned and hung off her arm with his wide eyed face on her shoulder. “Wow, you guys don’t look like criminals!” He exclaimed.

“Isaac!” A woman’s voice floated through the open door. “What did we  _ just _ talk about?” 

The boy’s face flushed and he sheepishly mumbled, “Sorry, I meant delinquents.”

“Oh my GAWD, stop talking!” The girl whined in an over-the-top teenage voice. 

Two adults appeared behind the teens. They wore mostly brown and white, and they didn’t look like typical farmers. Neither did the kids. They actually looked, normal? Except for the farm traditional flannel the teen girl had wrapped around her waist, they could have been mistaken for a normal family from a city. 

“Hello!” The woman came down the white wood steps to greet them. She had dark rimmed glasses and long brown hair over a sweet smile--all in all she looked like the kind mother Harrow never had. Her husband had a head of curly hair and rich dark skin like the teen girl, while the boy’s lanky frame and thin face was similar to the woman’s (hadn’t the warden said these kids were adopted?). “I’m Abigail Pent, and this is my husband Magnus Quinn,” she greeted. 

A final shadowed body arrived in the doorway, but Harrow’s social battery was running too low for her to care who all these people’s children were. Corona shouldered her way between Ianthe and Harrow to extend one of her golden hands with a grin. “Hi, I’m Coronabeth! You can just call me Corona”--she dragged Ianthe forward--“and this is Ianthe. Don’t let her lifelessness fool you, we’re twins!” Abigail seemed amused by the contrast of chipper Corona and sullen Ianthe. Corona suddenly yanked Harrow closer to say, “And this is our favorite skeleton, get it, cause she’s bone--”

“Harrowhark fucking Nonagesimus.”

The shadow stepped onto the porch and Harrow felt her heart plummet to the earth like the dead rock it was. The tossled red hair, the bronze skin, those stupid gold eyes; Harrow knew them all. And the girl they belonged to was the most insufferable, annoying, unfairly charismatic creature alive.

“Griddle,” Harrow clipped back, trying to sound unfazed.

Gideon Nav’s trademark lopsided smile split her face in half as she leaned on the porch railing with a chuckle. “I can’t believe  _ you _ went to fuckin juvie!”

“I can’t believe  _ you _ got adopted!” 

The two teens flickered their eyes back and forth between the glaring girls, the boy whispering, “I think they know each other.”

Like the one teen, Nav was wearing a black shirt with a red flannel tied around her waist. She had on jeans that actually looked like they were used for outdoor work plus leather boots that rose almost a quarter ways up her calves. In her one hand was a grey beanie recently pulled from her head, for once giving her unkempt hair a reason for looking like shit.  _ Why doesn’t she just wear a pride flag as a cape; that’d be  _ less _ obvious,  _ Harrow groaned internally, already wishing she could go back to jail.

Griddle came down the steps to stand beside Abigail. “You could’ve warned me Nonagesimus was one of the ones coming.”

“Gideon,” she said, her tone incredibly kind for someone who had to talk to the incompetent ginger, “you know we’re not supposed to share information about the kids we’re getting.” 

Corona’s eyes were raking up and down Nav like she was a prized slab of beef. Harrow painstakingly admitted that Griddle  _ had _ become well figured in the muscle category, but she didn’t see the appeal. “Well it is  _ very _ nice to meet you,” Corona said in the most sultry voice Harrow had ever heard. Within seconds the golden hands were on Griddle’s arm and Corona’s pupils widened into black holes. “Wow, are these from just farm work?” 

“And a home gym.” There was that stupid smile again. Ianthe started making gagging motions with her finger, to which Harrow was obliged to laugh.

Before Corona could start doing something worse, the teen girl made a noise and pointed between Griddle and Harrow, asking, “Exactly how do you two know each other?” 

“The skeleton lover and I shared a group home for four years,” Griddle said, disentangling herself from Corona’s hands. “What were you Harrow, a year old?”

“I was 10, you ass.”

“Oh yeah, it’s hard to tell when there isn’t much size difference.”

Ianthe snorted and Harrow fought the urge to punch someone. Whether it would have been Griddle or Ianthe depended on proximity.

Abigail led them inside the house which was the largest Harrow had ever seen. The floors were made of shiny wood and the walls were made of stone, plus a beamed ceiling stretching far over Harrow’s head. Chandeliers made from antlers dangled from beams over the main floor which was completely open. To their left was a living room filled with soft looking sofas and chairs around a fireplace and tv. To the right was a marble island and a wall length kitchen. Past the kitchen was a large dining table and glass sliding doors into another room which was designed to look like a gym. Next to the living room was an alcove where stairs led to the second level. 

“This is gorgeous!” Corona squealed, managing to raise her pitch even more. 

Abigail smiled kindly. “Thank you Corona. I hope you girls will feel comfortable here.”

“Not a chance,” Harrow grumbled under her breath. She caught Griddle staring and glared with what she hoped was murderous rage. The ginger turned away.

“You’ve already met our oldest daughter Gideon,” Abigail said, inclining her head to the pain in the ass in question. “And these are our younger children: Isaac and Jeannemary.” Both teens waved enthusiastically. Harrow  _ really _ wanted to go back to jail. 

The Jeannemary girl leaned forward with curious eyes and a small smile. “Soooo, like, what did you guys  _ do _ ?” 

Without missing a beat, Ianthe said dryly, “Killed someone.”

Isaac and Jeannemary both laughed until they realised no one else was. “Oh shit, is she serious?” Isaac whispered as if he’d never whispered before. 

“It’s not polite to ask that, Isaac.” Abigail’s husband--Magnus--finally spoke. His voice was just as kind as hers as he gently guided the annoying teens away from them. “Sorry girls,” he sheepishly apologized. “These two are in the ‘blurt every thought’ stage of puberty.”

(“Noooo Magnus, don’t tell them that!”)

“Gideon, show them up to their rooms so they can put their stuff down,” said Abigail. “Then we can talk more about what things are going to look like around here.” 

Harrow clung to her two bags when Griddle offered to carry something, (“You should give your three whole muscles a break, Nonagesimus”) meanwhile Corona jumped at the chance to be catered to. 

The upstairs were more plain. Everything was made of deep brown wood, leaving the paintings on the walls as the only pops of color. Each one depicted some style of space theme, which Harrow didn’t mind--just found odd considering the farm theme going on. Griddle led them straight down the hall to the last three doors. She indicated to the two on the right: “These are for the twins; you two can decide which ones which.” Then to the lone door on the left: “Nonagesimus, your lair.”

“Bite me.”

Nav grinned cause she was insane. “Each room has its own bathroom. The door here”--she pointed to a door on Harrow’s side near the middle of the hall--”is to the study. None of us are allowed in.” She pointed back the hall and past where the staircase dropped through the floor. There were at least five doors scattered between the study and the end of the hall. “Those are our rooms, if you ever need anything. Not you, Nonagesimus.”

“Again, bite me.”

Ianthe and Corona disappeared into their rooms relatively quickly, but Harrow lingered in the doorway for a bit. She’d never had her own room. She’d spent her life sharing; first with kids at her group homes, and then with Ianthe at Canaan. Of course, she’d had her own room before going into foster care, but she preferred not to think about her life before; her life with her parents. 

“Hey, Nonagesimus?” Griddle’s voice startled Harrow and she almost slammed the door in the ginger’s face.

Instead, Harrow decided to play nice and ask in her most bitchy voice: “What?”

“Why were you in juvie?” When Harrow didn’t immediately answer or smack her, Griddle continued, “You were one of the quietest, most behaved kids in that group home. You’re the last person I would think--” She trailed off before shaking her head and quickly finishing, “So, uh, yeah--seriously, what did you do?”

Harrow heaved a large sigh, looked the other girl right in her golden eyes, and plainly said: “Go to hell, Nav.” 

With the door now firmly shut between them, Harrow dropped her two bags on the floor and looked around her room. It was brown (what was with these people and browns?) and had some gold accents. She had a window beside her bed, and she realised Corona was right; it  _ was _ nice to look outside without bars. Griddle’s question was bouncing around in Harrow’s temporal lobe, but she was beating it down with a mental stick. Talking about why she went into Canaan was not something she intended to do with anyone, least of all Griddle. Talking led to thinking and thinking led to remembering. 

Harrow remembered that fateful night every time she slept, which was why she rarely did. If she talked about it, Harrow feared she would always remember, even when her eyes were open; she would always see those flames. 

The flames meant for her.    
  



	2. The First Day

Breakfast was...something. There were large pancakes, bowls filled with fruit, strips of greasy bacon, and what was trying to be scrambled eggs. Although, it’d be hard for anything to be worse than prison gruel or group home allotted food, so Harrow really shouldn’t complain. The day felt like it’d been going on forever, but the clock read 8 AM no matter how hard she scrubbed her eyes. (How had they only been here 15 minutes? This was going to be a long thirteen months). Abigail and Magnus seemed like decent cooks, and Ianthe and Corona were devouring the food like it was their first meal ever. Harrow picked at the pieces on her plate and acted like she was chewing whenever someone looked at her. She didn’t want to be outright rude, but someone had clearly never taught these people about moderation. Or heart disease.

The whole group was sitting at the long dining table; Harrow and the Tridentarii on one side and the adults and teens on the other. Griddle had tried to sit beside Harrow, but one cold look and the ginger had moved to a chair at the end. Thankfully, Griddle was eating most of the food near Harrow, so it wasn’t painfully obvious she herself wasn’t eating. 

“You both are very talented cooks,” Corona said in her buttery voice. 

Magnus smiled in thanks. “I’m much better at making food than I am at farming it.” The teens laughed, so Harrow assumed there was a story to that line. 

“But you’re a much better farmer than a duelist,” Gideon grinned with a mouthful of pancake. 

Ianthe perked up. “Duelist?”

Magnus indicated into the gym area where a wall was covered in swords of various sizes and styles. “We enjoy fencing occasionally.”

“You mean you enjoy  _ losing _ at fencing,” Jeannemary joked. 

“And often!” Gideon added.

“Griddle, I can’t believe you’re  _ still _ into swords,” Harrow said with as much disdain as possible. “How haven’t you stabbed yourself yet?”

“Don’t worry, you can’t get rid of me that easily, Nonagesimus.”

Harrow huffed, gave up on the eggs, and tested the fruit. 

* * *

The dishes were piled in the already filled sink and Abigail beckoned them back to the table for a talk. Harrow hated talks; all the ones she’d had hadn’t ended well. 

Once they were all seated, Abigail began: “I want to preface this by saying we want you three to feel safe and comfortable here. That means we’re not going to ask you to talk about what led to you going to juvie, or to share any type of information you don’t want. On that note, one of the conditions of your release is that you attend therapy, but don’t worry, we’ve known Augustine for years and he is very easy to talk to.” 

_ Great, one of those ‘everyone knows everyone’ type of towns,  _ Harrow groaned to herself. 

“Onto farm stuff!” Abigail said with more enthusiasm than was necessary. “Our farm is mostly for crops. We sell them each week at the local marketplace. We also have horses and sheep as you might have seen, and occasionally we take them to even—”

“I’m learning how to do jumps and stuff with them!” Isaac excitedly butted in. 

Ianthe raised an eyebrow. “I hope you mean on a horse and not the sheep.”

Isaac laughed then his eyes lit up. “Can I ride a sheep, Abigail!”

“No.”

(In the background, you could see Magnus already mentally creating a saddle for a sheep.)

“Anyway,” Abigail continued, “we decided that each of you will be mentored in a specific area of farm life. Jeannemary works with the crops out in the fields doing a lot of care, planting, and harvesting. Isaac works with the horses and sheep involving grooming, training, and other types of care. And Gideon is our jack of all trades; she fixes equipment, assists both of the young ones (“hey!” the young ones snapped) and gets supplies from in town.”

“Ooh can I work with the animals!” Corona squealed happily. “I’d love to learn how to ride a horse and groom a sheep! I have an assortment of hairbrushes and styling products; they’ll be the most fashionable sheep in town!”

Isaac and Jeannemary exchanged a look. “Uhm, that’s not—“ (“Ssh, don’t ruin it for her,” Magnus whispered.)

As Corona displayed her complete lack of knowledge as to how animals were groomed, Harrow began mentally resigning herself to working in the field with the Jeannemary girl. She didn’t seem too annoying; definitely the least out of the three. The blistering sun, scratchy dirt, and inevitable skin disease was just the price to pay for  _ not _ being stuck up close and personal with Griddle for thirteen months.

And then God reminded Harrow why she fucking hated Ianthe Tridentarius.

“I’d love to help with the crops,” the mustard covered stick said coolly. “It’d be nice to get outside more often.”

“Great!” Abigail’s eyes fell on Harrow and the most horrifying statement to ever exist left her mouth: “Harrow, you can assist Gideon around the farm and with going into town.” Black eyes met vibrant gold ones, and Harrow debated just killing one of these people (preferably a Tridentarii) and going back to juvie. 

Nav’s shoulder nudged hers and that stupid voice said, “This won’t be so bad, Nonagesimus.”

Cleanup began. Griddle left to help Magnus at the sink and Abigail told the trio to change into some work clothes. The statement was directed mostly at Corona, but Harrow was itching to get into a different shirt that wasn’t soaked in sweat. As they climbed the stairs, Ianthe brushed past, flipping that sickly straight hair into her eyes. “Have fun Harry,” she said evilly. 

* * *

The sun rose higher into the sky as the farm day began. Isaac led a farm-ready Coronabeth out to the pastures to meet the sheep. Ianthe and a sugar infused Jeannemary made their way to the fields across from the house, baskets in hand to pick the ripe strawberries. Ianthe already looked miserable, which was the only solace Harrow had as she followed her ginger moron into the large shed behind the house. It took three minutes to cross the emerald green backyard and open up the barn style doors, and Harrow already had sweat dripping into her eyes and running down her back to pool in the dips of her hip bones. So much for a new shirt helping.

“Welcome to my workshop,” Griddle said with misguided pride. The shed was huge, with stairs at the back leading up to a second level full of equipment. The lower level had an old vehicle sitting on bricks to the left with assorted parts laid across a wall length table. Stacks of wood were along the right wall as were random tools Harrow recognized but would never bother to put names to. Bags of seeds and animal feed were also stacked randomly across the floor which was strewn with hay and bits of metal. This place looked like it was half storage half junkyard. 

“It looks like shit,” Harrow said bluntly. If Griddle took offense, she didn’t say so.

Griddle examined the bags of animal food and furrowed her too orange eyebrows. “Dulcie’ s store doesn’t open till 10, so we can get some inventory done before heading out.” She picked up a tablet and handed it to Harrow. On the screen was a spreadsheet of various words followed by two numbers. “Each name is a type of seed or food. The first number is how many we have and the second is how many we need,” Griddle explained. “I don’t update this regularly, so it’s now your job.”

Harrow snorted. “Wow, inventory. I bow to your genius, Griddle.”

Nav snorted and gently patted Harrow’s shoulder, causing her to flinch. “There are bags strewn all over this place, mostly cause I don’t know how to organize. So have fun.”

Harrow sighed, thankful there was limited sunlight and a bit of air conditioning in this place. Griddle picked up some large car parts from the table and opened the dented top. “What are you doing to that thing?” Harrow asked. “It looks like it’s from two centuries ago.”

“I’m fixing it,” Griddle said with her head nearly buried in the mechanics. “It’s been my pet project for years.”

Harrow began counting the bags of seeds, but questions were gnawing at her brain like flies on a carcass. “When did you learn how to do stuff like that?” 

“Magnus taught me the basics and then I read a few books.”

“You can read?”

Griddle snorted. “Glad to know you haven’t changed, Nonagesimus.”

After that they fell into a comfortable semi-silence. Harrow rummaged around the mess of a workshop, counting various seed bags and animal food while Griddle used seemingly random tools on the dissected car. The air was filled with dust and grainy sunlight coming through the unclean windows, but Harrow actually began to feel calm. Bantering with Griddle made her life feel normal again. All they’d done in their group home was verbally abuse each other. Sometimes physically abuse when they were younger, but eventually they’d settled into a rhythm. It was wake up, knock each other around, eat, banter, study, banter, go outside, eat, fight, and end the night with insults and a final shove or hit. Harrow’s life had fallen apart when her parents had died, and Gideon Nav had become her only reprieve and eventually her only solace. 

When the annoying ginger said she didn’t organize, she was understating it. Bags were sat in the strangest places around the workshop: on the stairs, under tables, in nooks on the walls. Harrow was itching to sort the bags into piles, but Griddle was right about her total of three muscles. The bags must have been forty pounds each—even the ones with just seeds inside. Harrow practically twisted her shoulder out of place from just trying to pull one. When her grip slipped and she fell on her ass, Nav laughed and Harrow flipped her off in return. But everything felt right. For the first time since Griddle had abandoned her in that group home, everything felt right. 

God help her, she might actually like it here. 

* * *

An hour passed and Harrow managed to locate all the bags as well as start a plan to make Griddle organize everything. The car didn’t appear to have changed, despite the ginger spending the whole time under the hood. Finally Griddle looked up, her hands covered in grease, and grinned lopsidedly at Harrow. “Finished, Nonagesimus?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. You really should have a better system in here.”

Griddle shrugged, wiping off her hands on a towel, and shut the hood of the car. “Dulcie’s shop is open by now, so you’re coming with me into town to get supplies.” She took the tablet from Harrow and scrolled through the spreadsheet, her tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration. “That’s not too bad. Don’t worry, you won’t have to lift anything heavier than five pounds.”

“Bite me.” 

Nav grinned and closed the tablet, taking a pair of keys out of her jeans pocket. The duo made their way out of the shed and to the truck parked out front of the house. Abigail was planting yellow and blue flowers out front and waved when Gideon called over that they were going into town. “Don’t kill each other,” was her only other response.

Harrow glanced out across the grass to where the thin figures of Ianthe and Jeannemary were crouched in between rows of—something. Harrow didn’t know about crops, but she didn’t think those looked like strawberries. She climbed into the passenger seat and thanked God the truck wasn’t from the eighties as well. 

“So, you're seriously not gonna tell me what you did to go to jail?” Griddle spoke after ten minutes of riding in silence. Harrow had been staring out the window, acting like the farms rushing by were interesting, and was content to ignore her annoying companion. But—sadly—she knew Griddle, so in the grand scheme of things, talking was actually better than ignoring. 

“Why should I?” Was her blunt answer.

Griddle shrugged. “We used to always talk.”

“That wasn’t talking; that was fighting.”

“Same thing with us.”

Silence fell back over them. Harrow contemplated jumping out of the truck and making a run for it. Her peripheral vision caught Griddle opening her mouth with another question, so Harrow blurted out, “When did they adopt you?” She really didn’t care, but anything was better than being pestered with questions. 

Griddle seemed taken aback by Harrow’s ‘interest’, but she was bound by her chatterbox nature to answer. “A little over a year ago; right before I turned seventeen. I didn’t think they’d go through with it to be honest. I mean, they already had Isaac and Jeannemary so why would they need a third kid?” After a brief pause she looked over and said in the most serious voice Harrow had ever heard: “I really did think I’d come back, ya know?”

“All the smart bets were on that,” Harrow said dryly, keeping her eyes on the road.  _ Don’t go there Griddle,  _ she mentally begged. 

Her telepathy worked, and Griddle returned to focusing on driving. “You’ll like Dulcinea I think. She knows the coolest facts about plants and stuff.”

“Why on earth would that interest me?”

“Well plants do some pretty gross things, and you’re a pretty gross thing so—”

“Fuck you.” 

Griddle laughed and reached over to push Harrow’s shoulder. For the trouble, Harrow slapped the hand. “Seriously though,” the ginger continued, “Dulcie’s great. She’s a longtime friend. Runs the largest supply store in the area with her friend Protesilaus. He looks like a bag of lemons stuffed in a flesh suit.”

“Charming.”

“He’s cool too though. Him and the bookshop keeper, Ortus, both write poetry or something. I don’t understand anything those two spout off about, and neither does Dulcie, but they seem to like it.”

“And you wonder why I think you’re illiterate.”

Griddle laughed and took a turn into a tunnel that cut through the mountain. The farms disappeared as the darkness of the tunnel swallowed them, punctuated briefly by flashes of white from the overhead lights. They were dumped out the other side onto a road running towards a decently sized town. The whole thing was stupidly idyllic. 

“Pretty nice huh?” Griddle asked, reading Harrow’s mind.

“It’s a town; it’s doing its job.”

For as long as the road looked, it only took ten minutes to breach the town. Harrow felt like she was in one of those stupid Hallmark movies. The small shops, cobblestone sidewalks, and lampposts with flower chains wrapped around them were eerily similar to every cheesy romance movie ever. Harrow wanted to vomit. Griddle pulled the truck into a small parking lot behind a large white building. The front was a colorful explosion including a bright awning, flowers, and stacks of multicolored bags; it made Harrow’s head spin.

“Hurry up, duchess of darkness!” Griddle called as her long legs carried her to the entrance. Harrow groaned, remembering the dozens of stupid nicknames Griddle had given her over the years. The glass doors slid open and a blast of cold air froze the sweat beads on Harrow’s skin. Lights hummed overhead, almost as loud as the air conditioner which clearly could use a day off. The laminate flooring had been scrubbed and waxed so much it shone, reflecting the lights back into Harrow’s eyes. 

She already hated this place. 

“Hi Gideon!” A cheery voice rang out. From behind the checkout counter came a pallid woman in a wheelchair. She had a glowing smile and brown hair that fell in ringlets over one shoulder. Her blue eyes sparkled as bright as the blue veins crisscrossing under her near translucent skin. “Who’s this?” The woman asked sweetly as she came to a stop in front of them. 

“Hey Dulcie, this is the grim reaper,” Griddle greeted, bending down to hug the Dulcinea girl. She laughed, which turned into a small hack. 

“You must be one of the new farmhands at Fifth House,” Dulcinea surmised, smiling politely at Harrow. 

“Yes.”

Griddle grinned. “Don’t be offended, Dulcie. Harrow has the personality of wet cardboard.” Harrow fought the urge to bite back, but decided to take the high road and just kept silent. 

Dulcinea led them through the large supply store, chatting cheerfully with Griddle about anything and everything. It took all but five minutes for Dulcinea to type on her tablet what they needed and send it off so “Pro can start bringing everything to the loading dock.” Griddle appeared content to just follow Dulcinea as she showed off her new inventory; everything from plants to grooming items to jackets. Harrow was bored out of her mind. The whole place was a shrine to farming, and Harrow was already tired after barely one day of it.

As Dulcinea was coaxing Griddle into trying on a leather jacket, Harrow slipped away and through the front doors. The green awning out front gave enough shade to make being outside bearable. Harrow leaned against the wall of the store and watched the people walking along the sidewalk. Her eyes wandered past the alley entrance to the parking lot and fell on the brick bookstore next door. A large display window showed stacks of leather bound books with calligraphy fonts. Harrow wandered over, scanning the titles. Most were classics she hated or poetry books she’d rather die than think about reading. Some had Greek epic titles, which reminded Harrow of staying up into the night reading at the group home. Books had been a frequent comfort for her, and she had stayed up many nights reading in the darkness. When she’d been eleven, Griddle had threatened to tell on her, so Harrow had reluctantly let the girl climb into her bed and read over her shoulder each night. Turns out they both liked stories about magic and knights and monsters.

Harrow blinked and forced the memory away. Leave it to Griddle to find any way to interrupt her life. 

Moving away from the bookstore, Harrow wandered to the next building over. It was a clothing store, so most likely filled with skirts and tops fit for a Tridentarius. The mannequins positioned along the front were decorated in fabrics of every color, which again made Harrow want to vomit. Then she caught a reprieve: a splash of black hanging at the end. It wasn’t on a mannequin, but hanging with other sweatshirts on hooks. It was a beautiful black hoodie with a skull made of silver spots on the front. 

Harrow had one just like that. Well, she used to. It was either in a police evidence locker somewhere, or in a trash heap. It had been burned beyond repair in the fire; the one sleeve being swallowed whole by the orange flames. Harrow shuddered and stepped back, knocking into someone standing behind her. She whirled around and glared at Griddle who flashed her lopsided smirk. 

“Whatcha looking at Nonagesimus?”

“Nothing.”

They stared each other down for a moment before Nav looked over Harrow’s head at the hoodie. A flash of recognition went across her eyes, but she didn’t make a comment. “Go back to the truck and make sure we have the right amount of everything. I still have to talk with Dulcinea about some things.” Harrow wanted to argue, to tell Griddle to stop bossing her around, but the sun was merciless and Harrow wanted to get out of here as fast as possible. 

It took nearly twenty minutes for Griddle to finish whatever she was doing. Harrow had checked the mountain of bags three times before the ginger finally reappeared. She gave no explanation, just got in the truck with Harrow and drove off. She had tossed a bag into the backseat, probably another stupid flannel. Harrow wiped the sweat from her forehead with her jacket sleeve, but it returned with a vengeance in seconds. “If you’re hot, why don’t you take that jacket off?” Griddle asked. 

“Mind your own business, Nav.”

They got back to Fifth House at 11:30 and Harrow was thankfully dismissed to go inside and help Abigail and the others prepare lunch. Magnus and Griddle were tasked with putting the supplies away—Harrow wasn’t jealous. Inside, Ianthe was washing a bowl filled with blood red strawberries. Harrow could already feel the sour aftertaste of the fruit burning her tongue. Abigail and Corona were at the island making a giant bowl of salad—the only edible thing Harrow could see in the kitchen. Jeannemary was watching a large pot on the stove which was filled with what was trying to be soup. 

Ianthe leaned over and dipped one of her inhumanly long fingers into the boiling liquid then stuck it in her mouth. “Needs salt,” she said after making a face. 

“You can’t just add salt willy nilly, Ianthe,” Corona chastised. 

Abigail noticed Harrow lingering in the doorway and waved for her to come over. “You and Corona can finish the salad. I’ll attend to Ianthe’s soup concerns.” Her smile and chuckle were just as friendly as that morning. Harrow was fully expecting that to end soon. No one could spend extended time with the Tridentarii without wanting to hang themselves. 

Lunch was better than breakfast. Harrow mostly ate salad, relishing the flavorless lettuce and spinach, picking out the sour tomatoes, and testing the sliced cucumbers. The soup was decent, but two spoonfuls were all Harrow could handle. Apparently Pent loved pepper. Everyone else did too. Even Ianthe had a second bowl, swirling the liquid filled with chopped vegetables around while her spoon clinked off the sides. A plate of toasted rolls was set in the middle of the table, and Harrow ate two before she remembered about the fat content of white bread and stopped herself. Corona babbled the entire time about how cute the sheep were and how nice the horses were and how excited she was to start riding them. Magnus showed Isaac a preliminary sketch for a sheep saddle, which Abigail promptly took. All in all, it felt like a normal family meal straight from a movie. 

Harrow still felt like it was some cruel dream she’d wake from, alone as always. 

* * *

The rest of the day was uneventful. Harrow spent most of it in the workshop with Griddle. The ginger was doing random things to the ancient car all afternoon into the evening while Harrow had been set to the task of cleaning the wide variety of tools up in the loft; simultaneously continuing her plans for how to get the place organized. She had mapped out sections around the back of the workshop for each kind of seed and type of food. The new bags were stacked haphazardly by the doors, fueling Harrow’s personal project to make Griddle an organized person.

Dinner wasn’t anything special in Harrow’s opinion. There was chicken, but it had been doused in spices to the point the smell made bile rise in her throat. There were mashed potatoes which she was able to stomach, but watching Corona and Griddle cover them in butter sent pain through her chest. Although, watching one of them drop dead from a heart attack wouldn’t be too bad. 

The evening brought blissfully cooler temperatures as the teens and Corona went out to settle the horses in for the night. Abigail promised Ianthe and Harrow would get to meet them tomorrow, but Harrow wasn’t looking forward to it. Magnus offered up a game of cards (some game called 500 Rummy) but she wasn’t interested. Ianthe agreed when Harrow said she was tired, and the two vanished upstairs, leaving Corona to talk the ears off the teens and Magnus as the cards were dealt. Griddle had vanished an hour ago, most likely into the gym. Once upstairs, the Tridentarius tried to strike up a conversation, but Harrow shut the door in her face. She was actually beginning to enjoy doing that. 

Harrow had never had a private shower before. That was one of the reasons she took them in limited amounts. Especially in juvie. The communal showers had been a breeding ground for gossip, mold, and people staring at the patches of Harrow’s burned skin. Even now, the sight of the blackened blisters along her right side made her want to die. But her body was so caked with sweat and dust, Harrow had no choice but to stand under the freezing water. She tried to wash her hair, but when the water turned warm she had to get out. Her skin remembered what warmth felt like; it was fire running up her clothes and flames dancing before her eyes. Once she had changed into something cool to sleep in, Harrow stood before the window and watched the bright red and orange streaks set over the plains. That didn’t help much. 

There was a quick knocking on the door and Harrow lunged, ready to snap at who was most likely Ianthe or Griddle on the other side, but the hallway was empty. Sitting on the floor though was a plastic bag, and nestled inside was the black skull hoodie.

Harrow gasped, forgetting how much she despised the guilty ginger, and buried her face into the back fabric. It even felt like her old hoodie, before the fire had gotten it. Harrow looked around again, but Griddle wasn’t there. “Thanks,” she said to the hallway, not doubting the insufferable girl was somewhere within earshot. Back in her room, Harrow curled up inside the midnight fabric. The inside was soft enough that it didn’t even irritate her scars. Someone might have said the whole place was starting to feel like a home—like the light at the end of an abyssal tunnel—with its hospitality and warmth.

Harrow had never known ‘home’ though, so she just went to sleep. 


	3. Therapy #1

The man sitting before Harrow was too tall and thin to be considered tall and thin. His white hair had been slicked back, making his face thinner and longer, and he wore white with the confidence of someone who thought doing so made them a badass. Harrow did not see how Augustine was ‘easy to talk to’ as Abigail had put it. The fact he insisted Harrow call him Augustine instead of Dr. Quinque made the situation reek of unprofessionalism in her opinion. 

“How are you Harrowhark?” He asked politely after a few minutes of silence.

“I’m fine,” was her clipped response. Fuck the Tridentarii for making her go first.

Augustine grinned as if he took her unresponsiveness as a challenge. “How’s Fifth House been so far? I bet you’re excited to be out of Canaan.”

Harrow leaned back against the crunchy brown couch with a huff. “It's been one day and I don’t mind the place, but I don’t like it either.” Augustine nodded mutely. After an awkward minute of staring Harrow grumbled, “Alright, I don’t like it at all.”

“And why’s that?” Oh great, he was bringing out the therapist voice. His question instantly brought the image of red hair and honey colored eyes into her mind. And that stupid smile on Griddle’s face when Harrow had come downstairs that morning wearing the hoodie still. Thankfully, neither of the Tridentarii chose to ask where the piece of clothing had come from. If they had, Harrow might have killed herself on the spot. Some part of her mind was encouraging her to lie about her discomfort, and she felt obliged to agree with it. 

“I’m not a fan of farms,” she said instead. 

Augustine smiled what someone might call a knowing smile, but Harrow herself knew many things and she never smiled like that so the phrase was severely outdated. “Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with being reunited with an old group home friend?”

“Griddle was  _ not _ my friend,” Harrow snapped before critical thinking took over. “And I would hate the farm anyway, even without her coincidentally being there.”

“It was no coincidence.”

Harrow jolted up spine straight on the couch, equally horrified by his words and the fact she’d started to relax. There was a humorous gleam in the man’s eye. “Excuse me?” She asked tensely. 

“It means that Canaan knew you would be a good candidate for Abigail and Magnus’s farm when they learned Gideon Nav was one of their children”—Augustine leaned forward—”I know you’ve heard this phrase before, but the first step to healing is confronting all your demons.”

“I appreciate the insinuation Griddle is a demon.”

“That’s not what I mean. In order for the trauma you sustained the night of the fire to be resolved, you have to face the reasons behind it. Such as confronting the catalyst.”

Harrow roughly pushed her body off the couch. “I am  _ not _ telling Gideon about that night, or anything involving the fire!” Without waiting for a response, she stormed past his chair and went to throw open the door and leave.

What stopped her was Augustine’s voice saying, “Harrowhark, one of the conditions for your release is therapy attendance. If you walk out that door, you go right back to Canaan.” Harrow’s hand stilled on the handle. Going back to juvie meant getting the hell away from this place with people who smiled too much and redheads that were too damn nice, but it also meant going back to being alone and scared in a place where the walls cried and no sunlight ever shone. Harrow was used to being alone in darkness, trapped within her own head, but for whatever reason, she let go of the handle and sat back down. 

Once Augustine seemed sure she wasn’t going to storm out, he wrote something down in his notes and said, “If you’re not ready to talk to Gideon about the fire, then just talk to me about it.”

“I’ve spent over a year talking about it,” Harrow grumbled, rubbing forcefully at her eyes. “Social workers, lawyers, a judge, five different therapists; I’m sick of talking! There are a thousand other screwed up things in my life I can think about.”

Augustine’s pen made scratchy hiccups on the paper as he wrote. “Where did the hoodie come from? That wasn’t part of your Canaan approved wardrobe.”

Harrow fiddled with the strings on the hood, tying them into knots as Augustine watched. She gnawed on the worn flesh of her lower lip, digging her canines in until small flecks of skin and blood came out. Augustine watched her intently, one finger tapping expectantly on his leg. She finally conceded and said, “Griddle bought—“

“Why do you insist on calling her that?” Augustine interrupted. 

“Because I absolutely hate her. She’s an annoying twit. And yes, that is something you can write down; fucking quote me on it.”

Augustine laughed, actually  _ laughed _ , like Harrow had told an exceptionally clever joke. “I don’t believe that. You hate yourself, for a multitude of reasons according to these therapy notes”—he thumbed the stacks of paper in front of him for emphasis—“Is it possible you’re projecting your own self-hatred onto Gideon because she has traits you wish were yours? Your mind is misinterpreting jealousy for dislike?”

Harrow snorted. “I  _ do not _ want to be a loud mouthed moron with an addiction to weightlifting.”

Augustine smiled wider and scribbled something else down. God, his handwriting must be atrocious, even for a doctor. “Think about this then: when you first saw her at Fifth House, what was the first thing you noticed?”

Harrow hated this man with a passion. What embodiment of Satan thought that ‘healing’ and ‘think about Gideon Nav’ fell into the same categories? Yet, unwilling to go back to Canaan, Harrow did as told and thought back to the previous morning. Red hair, gold eyes, and that disgustingly nice smile. Her outfit had been a prime example of the phrase ‘looked gay’, and Harrow remembered how well Griddle seemed to blend with the other members of Fifth House. “She fit in,” Harrow finally decided on. “She looked happy.”

“And what was your immediate reaction?”

Harrow snorted so hard she assumed she’d popped a blood vessel. “Annoyance. Wanting to fling myself off a cliff so I wouldn’t have to look at her.”

“Her happiness annoyed you?”

“No,  _ Griddle _ annoys me. The fact she’s happy is of no concern.” 

More scribbling. Augustine made a few ‘hmms’ under his breath as he wrote. “You’re a smart girl, Harrowhark. I’m positive with a bit more time and examination, you might see a pattern in when Gideon most annoys you.”

“Of course there’s a pattern! Every time she opens her mouth I develop a headache!”

Another laugh. Augustine had the sparkling eyes of a person who was wickedly enjoying themself at the moment. “Perhaps, a good first step to overcoming this projection—besides the previously mentioned closer examination—would be to start treating Gideon nicer in general. Besides, it can’t hurt your recovery to have a friend, Harrowhark.”

“Griddle would never want to be my friend.”  _ And I would never want to be hers.  _ But Harrow couldn’t bring herself to say that part out loud for some reason. 

“And yet she bought you a hoodie.” 

Harrow rubbed at her head again. “Even if I wanted a friend, I wasn’t exactly taught how to make them. They don’t have social skills courses in group homes and juvie.”

There went that stupid pen again. “How about this: stop referring to her as ‘Griddle’. Use her real name; don’t be outright mean to her; I’m sure you’ll figure out the rest.”

Forcing her mouth and mind on the same page, or perhaps it was just to spite Augustine a bit more, Harrow blurted out, “And what if I don’t want to be her friend?” 

“Harrowhark,” he said with infinite patience, “you set a building on fire because you thought she was gone forever. Whether you hate or love her, something has entwined you to Gideon Nav, and it’s about time you began to admit that.”

* * *

Magnus, Griddle, and the Tridentarii had chosen a cramped 60’s style diner across the street from the disjointed therapy building. It was supposed to be some kind of medical complex, but it was tremendously deserted inside, with every other room being coated with enough dust to last the next millenia. Magnus had said the diner had the best lunch menu to exist, but Harrow was severely doubting that when she saw the black and white tiled floor, the red faux leather seats, and the atrocious pink and red wall colors. Magnus walked the Tridentarii—Corona was glowing and still talking; Ianthe looked like a sullen butter knife dipped in mayonnaise—across the street, forcing Harrow to sit with Griddle at their table. Thankfully the ginger was engrossed with her phone so Harrow was able to sit in silence. 

Some food had clearly already been ordered and Griddle was still eating from a red wire basket filled with thick steak fries, blindly fumbling for them with one hand. Harrow’s stomach violently growled, reminding her that her breakfast had been composed entirely of watery fruit. What stopped her was the black pepper flakes and grainy salt that had been sprinkled over the fries, turning her tongue to a brick. Nav noticed Harrow’s hand shrink back and in response pushed a second wire basket with a napkin laid over the top towards her. 

“I’m fine,” Harrow snapped.

“These don’t have anything on them,” Griddle said, not even looking up from her phone screen. “Ianthe is insane with salt.” The napkin was pulled off and the perfectly yellow fries were on display, beautifully untouched by any type of unsavory toppings. 

“If you don’t like salt why don’t you eat these?” Harrow asked, already grabbing at the food. 

“I do like salt. But I know you don’t.”

Harrow’s mouth stilled in chomping down on the fries. Had Gideon spared the fries from the wrath of Ianthe and a saltshaker specifically for  _ her _ ? “Thanks,” Harrow ventured. Gideon nodded in response, tapping away on her screen. Harrow stared, slightly horrified, at her obscene phone case—the only redeeming quality being that it was black. The drawing on the case was a highly unproportionate woman sitting against a wall with a sword held obscenely between her legs. “Where on Earth did you get such a disgusting thing?”

Now Nav looked at her, and followed Harrow’s extended finger to the case. Her smile was positively radiant as she said, “Isaac and JM bought it for me right after the adoption went through. Sort of a ‘welcome to the family’ present.”

“I think they were just trying to impress you,” came Magnus’s voice as he reappeared from delivering the Tridentarii. Gideon moved over so Magnus could sit, and Harrow swore his smile grew when he saw her hand buried in the basket of fries. “They’d always wanted an older sibling, and they liked you the second you arrived.” An uncharacteristic flush started up Griddle’s neck, and Magnus gently knocked her with his arm. She returned the action and Harrow wanted to vomit at the disgusting ‘family’ feeling encroaching on the table. She felt like an outsider looking into the life she wasn’t allowed to have, and a flare of anger at the obscene and braindead ginger roared across her frontal lobe. 

Magnus turned his attention to Harrow, which she also didn’t like. The man was just as talkative as Griddle, maybe even worse because he actually expected Harrow to respond. “So, Harrowhark, I’ve gotten to know Ianthe and Corona quite a bit. Er, more Corona to be quite honest. But I don’t know much about you.”

“Alright.” Harrow stared him down, knowing he wanted a more elaborate answer, but she wasn’t in the mood to give one. Why did he care who she was? Once her sentence was up she’d be gone forever from their lives.

Magnus pressed onward valiantly. “What do you enjoy learning in school? Any subjects you are particularly interested in?”

“How not to get murdered by your cellmate 101. Very informative,” she said flatly. Griddle barked out a laugh while Magnus just looked awkward. Harrow decided to cut him a break and toss a breadcrumb of information his way. “Of the scarce pickings Canaan offered, I enjoyed the lessons involving anatomy and science.”

“You’re still into bones, Nonagesimus?” Gideon asked, now partially paying attention to the conversation. “She used to collect the bones of dead animals we found behind our group home,” she explained to Magnus. 

“That was only once, Griddle!” Harrow snapped. Magnus had the expression of someone who was trying to seem polite but secretly judging you, which was to say he was smiling too wide and nodding like a dope. “It was a dead bird, and I only wanted to test if their bones really were hollow,” Harrow explained, not at all sure why she felt the need to do so. It wasn't like she cared if Magnus liked her. 

The rest of lunch was silent minus the tapping of Griddle doing whatever on her phone. Harrow was beginning to despise the sound, wishing she could shove the technological brick down the girl’s throat. That disgusting case was making eye contact, and Harrow feared the image getting burned into her mind. As she was imagining throttling the ginger, she heard Augustine’s voice in her hindbrain:  _ “You might see a pattern in when Gideon most annoys you _ .” This was followed by: “ _ Start treating Gideon nicer in general. Besides, it can’t hurt your recovery to have a friend.” _

_ Fuck that,  _ Harrow thought, beating down Augustine’s words with a stick. Then, after another minute of contemplation coupled with chewing:  _ I’ll try for one day. Just one. Just so I can tell him how wrong he was.  _ She finished the fries, but visibly recoiled at the menu Magnus slid in front of her. Everything was greasy sounding and the names left a burning feeling on the back of her tongue. The persisting silence was broken when Gideon said to Magnus, “We’re having one last game this weekend. To make up for the two weeks when the rink was shut down.”

“Sort of last minute,” Magnus commented. “It’s already Thursday.”

Griddle shrugged. “Coach  _ just _ decided.”

“You play a sport?” Harrow’s damn mouth started moving before her brain could decide she didn’t care. 

“Yeah, hockey,” Griddle smiled, pleased at Harrow’s interest. “There’s a rink downtown that hosts private teams. I just got promoted to the adult team at the start of the season!”

“Must have been a nice upgrade from the toddlers.” 

Nav gently kicked her under the table, still grinning.  _ I’ll start being nice tomorrow,  _ Harrow decided, returning the kick. 


	4. A Conversation

Harrow was in the fortunate position of being able to kick the back of Griddle’s seat the whole ride back to the farm. It was her only reprieve from the crushing presence of Ianthe next to her. Of all the crazy things the Tridentarii shared with Harrow (which she vehemently rejected), they never revealed anything about what they said in therapy. It was common knowledge that Corona was in the car when Ianthe had crashed it, killing the driver of the other vehicle, but the twins kept the rest of the details about their crime under wraps. Despite their insane bond, Harrow could not see Corona insisting to stay in juvie as long as Ianthe, but at risk of being sucked into a conversation, Harrow refused to ever question it. 

Corona was babbling about the horses again. Specifically, the cream and brown horse who ‘was positively radiant’. “You both must come out and meet Nellie!” Corona excitedly shook Ianthe’s arm, flinging the stick-like body back and forth. “Isaac said she’s the best riding horse on the farm!”

“He’s right about that,” Magnus agreed from the driver’s seat. “Nellie and Isaac have been working to enter the local show jumping competitions for a year now.”

“Is that where the horse jumps over the poles?” Ianthe asked, her voice disinterested and lazy. “Isn’t that absurdly dangerous?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Griddle interrupted Magnus. “Equestrian shit is badass. That’s one of the reasons Abigail didn’t want Isaac riding. He’s not exactly gifted with staying on the horse.”

“A pivotal point of the sport, I’m sure,” Ianthe deadpanned. 

“Well I think Nellie is just perfect for riding!” Corona gushed. 

Harrow snorted, semi to herself, right as Ianthe mumbled, “That’s what she said.” Griddle burst out laughing at that, and it was a disgustingly happy laugh to match her disgusting smile. 

“I’m really gonna like you, Ianthe,” the ginger said, flashing the pale twig a toothy smile. 

“What a pity for me,” Ianthe replied, a response to which Harrow could have kissed her.

“What I  _ mean,  _ you heathens,” said Corona, “is that Nellie is so sweet and gentle; Isaac said she hasn’t thrown him once!”

Corona continued babbling about wanting to learn more about show jumping, but Harrow tuned her out and  _ thunked _ her head against the truck window. She was bitterly reminded of the van ride to Fifth House, and refocused her attention on the surrounding fields and pastures belonging to other farms. Just past the tunnel leading towards town was a farm close in size to Abigail and Magnus’s. Instead of being constructed from stone and wood, the buildings were modern and made of metal, looking more like warehouses than places to store animals. “What do  _ they _ farm?” Harrow ventured, indicating the place as they passed.

Griddle looked up, her wild hair flopping around with the movement. “That’s Sixth House,” she said as if Harrow should know so. “They don’t really farm in the traditional sense. They do genetic engineering and make cool food with science.”

“Our booth at the local market is directly next to theirs,” Magnus chimed in. “Camilla and Palamedes always run it. You’ll like them both; sweet kids.”

“Magnus, they’re not kids; they’re twenty.”

Magnus laughed. “When you get to be my age, twenty is very much so a child!”

“Fifth House, Sixth House; I’m sensing a theme here,” Corona said wistfully, slow to the draw as usual.

“This valley was cultivated by one group a long time ago,” said Magnus. “The names of the farms just stuck even after the land was bought by different people.” The truck was pulled up next to the house and Harrow was thrilled to launch herself out of the backseat. Any more time breathing the same air as Griddle and she feared her IQ would drop. Isaac came out of the barn and his small figure jumped and waved excitedly to them. Jeannemary was sitting on the swinging porch bench reading, too engrossed her book to notice their arrival. Them still being around was startling to Harrow. Canaan did not have a summer vacation of sorts, just breaks between schooling sessions. And before, in her group home, vacation and breaks meant sitting inside all day or running around with Griddle in the walled-in backyard. Isaac and Jeannemary were incredibly lucky, and Harrow suddenly wanted to break something. 

Griddle jumped from the truck and landed next to her, throwing dust and loose dirt on Harrow’s jeans. Nav’s long legs allowed her to calmly disembark from the vehicle, but her personality meant she had to be annoying and disruptive anyway. Harrow punched her directly in the arm, and it wasn’t as impactful as she’d hoped, but it would do. “What was that for?” Nav asked, not even bothering to pretend like it hurt. 

“Because you  _ exist _ .”

* * *

Isaac and Corona excitedly begged Ianthe and Harrow to come meet the animals, and with Magnus’s gentle encouragement they were forced into the barn. The inside wasn’t like Harrow expected. It was actually cleaner than Griddle’s shed-workshop-storage place in the back. There were three horses on the left side and two on the right, with a ladder leading up to a loft full of hay, saddles, and other horse related supplies. Abigail was up there, handing down brushes to Isaac. Luckily the platform was close enough to the ground that one did not have to traverse the ladder carrying supplies. 

The horses whinnied at the arrival of new people, and Magnus and Griddle thankfully left so as not to overcrowd the place. The horses were—Harrow begrudgingly admitted—magnificent creatures. The three on the left were various shades of black, with the one closest to the door having white spots around its hooves and face. The other two were pure black and Harrow was instantly in love with them. The spotted one had the name Lachrimorta on its door and the two abyssal creatures were named Aisamorta and Glaurica respectively. On the right was the cream and brown dappled horse titled Nellie—to whom Corona instantly went—and next to her was a monstrous white horse named Colum. The fierce stallion had a scar down one eye and was by far the most muscular of the animals. Isaac—who clearly did not fear death—had begun brushing the horse and petting him. 

“They are huge,” Ianthe marveled, stepping cautiously away as Lachrimorta whinnied once more and thrust her head forward. Her violet eyes fell on Harrow. “This must be what you feel like, Harry.”

“Shut up, Ianthe.”

“They’re all beauties aren’t they?” Abigail called from the loft. “Go on and pet them; they’re all gentle giants.” Corona was basically making out with the horse, petting along Nellie’s nose and mane while pressing her face up to the horse’s. Harrow drifted over to the pitch black horse titled Aisamorta and reached up to stroke her nose. The creature let out a monstrous sound and Harrow threw herself backwards so quickly she tripped and landed unceremoniously on her ass. Ianthe took the opportunity to laugh and didn’t even act like she was going to help Harrow up.  _ Why does God insist on torturing me with these tall annoying women?  _

“Don’t be scared, Harrowhark!” Isaac said happily, adding to her embarrassment.

“I’m not scared!” She snapped as she stood and brushed off her pants and her pride. “I just wasn’t aware they made such sounds.”

“Haven’t you ever met a horse before?” Isaac seemed interested now, turning his attention from Colum. 

“No,” she said dismissively, refocusing her attention on attempting to touch the horse. 

Isaac pressed on. “Really? So you aren’t from a farming area? What kinds of animals are there where you’re from?” Finally Harrow looked at him. He was smiling stupidly, a trait he either learned from Griddle or naturally possessed, and his eyes gleamed with curiosity. His orange faux hawk made Harrow want to vomit, as did the dozen or so piercings he had in each ear. All in all, he was a typical annoying pituitary challenged boy, and why he was insisting on taking an interest in Harrow she didn’t know, but she didn’t enjoy it. 

So she had to nip it in the bud.

“I was raised in a grey and dark house by a family who were part of a cult, and then I moved to a grey and dark group home where going outside was restricted to a walled-in backyard, so no, I’ve never met a horse or any other kind of animal. Happy?” 

Isaac did not look happy. His mouth moved soundlessly for a few seconds. “I’m sorry,” he tentatively said. Then he brightened up, “But at least you get to see them here!”

“Yes, so far it has been a joy.”

Ianthe and Corona were side eyeing her, like she was a grenade the pin had just been pulled out of. Up in the loft, Abigail was acting as if the two saddles in front of her were the most interesting things in the world. Isaac, clearly oblivious to all the signs indicating danger, continued, “A cult? Really? What was that like?” Apparently Harrow had miscalculated his levels of curiosity. 

Abigail finally spoke. Her voice was low and warning as she said, “Issac, that’s enough.”

Harrow felt the smallest, most minuscule flicker of gratitude for the woman. Isaac listened and went back to Colum, but his determined little face foreshadowed his future persistence on the topic. Harrow wanted out of here, suddenly struggling to breathe in the confining space. The smell of the wooden slates and hay mingled together to make a nauseating odor that wormed its way into her olfactory nerve. The dust in the air threatened to choke her, coating her throat and lungs with what was probably asbestos. She needed an excuse; she couldn’t look like a scared little girl who ran from any mention of her past. She was Harrowhark fucking Nonagesimus!

And right now Harrowhark Nonagesimus was a scared little girl who wanted to run from any mention of her past. 

So, seeing as how she was out of options for a graceful exit, Harrow fell on the one safety blanket she had: “I have to help Griddle with something.” Without waiting for a response, Harrow breezed out of the barn and into the disgustingly bright sunlight. She hissed a bit and blindly started walking back towards the house. Perhaps she could sneak inside and hide in her room for the rest of the day.

“Hi Harrow!” 

Dammit. 

The happy voice of Jeannemary was accompanied by the girl herself leaning over the porch railing, book laying upside down on the swing. “What do you think of the horses! Aren’t they adorable!” Every word was punctuated by an exclamation point.

“They’re fine,” Harrow said neutrally. 

“Are you looking for Gideon! She’s in her shed!” Dammit now Harrow actually had to go back there. She circled the house and crossed the backyard to Griddle’s workshop-shed place and knocked once before pushing the doors open. 

“Griddle?” She called, fully ready to haul ass out if there was no response.

“What’s up Nonagesimus? Already scare the horses to death?” Griddle’s voice came from underneath the half dead car, and a second later the stupid and slightly dirty face popped out the side. 

Harrow ignored the dozen jokes she could make and said plainly, “Ha ha.” 

The face vanished back underneath. “What are you doing here, Harrow?”

“Right now, hoping that car collapses and I watch you slowly asphyxiate.” 

Griddle slid out fully from under the vehicle and sat up, wearing a different tank top and pair of pants than when they’d left. The two pieces of clothing were black, but different shades which pissed Harrow off. “I’m fully aware you want to watch me die, Nonagesimus. Now what demonic being has possessed you to voluntarily come here?”

Harrow gingerly sat on one of the stacks of bagged feed. The bags were sturdy and when they didn’t move she adjusted to be more comfortable. Griddle was watching her with that half up grin and glowing eyes. “I got bored. Annoying you always solves that problem.”

“I know you better than that,” Griddle said, leaning back on her hands a bit. Harrow moved her eyes from the line of Nav’s biceps moving under her warm brown skin. 

“Fine, uh, Ianthe was making fun of me,” Harrow scrambled. It wasn’t a complete lie. “I didn’t feel like being mocked.”

“Want me to knock her around?” Gideon asked that so sincerely Harrow was at a loss for words. “I’m serious, Nonagesimus. I’ll punch anyone for you.”

“That’s—”

“God knows your bird fingers would break if  _ you _ tried.”

“You’re impossible,” Harrow said definitively. 

“Impossibly hot, you mean.” Griddle winked. Harrow experienced minor cardiac arrest—stupid cholesterol filled french fries. 

Thankfully the conversation was over and the ginger slid back under the car to whatever she was doing. Harrow continued sitting on the stack, picking at dirt under her fingernails. A few minutes of comfortable silence stretched between them until Griddle’s muffled voice said, “So how do you like it here?” 

“I’ve already been to therapy today, Griddle,” Harrow snapped. “I did the whole talk about your feelings crap.”

“Impossible; you don’t have any.” Another minute passed until Griddle’s chronic fear of silence reappeared. “I’m serious Harrow, do you at least not  _ hate _ being here?”

Harrow decided to cut Nav a break and actually answer. Had she enjoyed the short almost two days she’d spent here? Not particularly. Did she enjoy being  _ here _ more than being in juvie? Hell yes. So she settled on a neutral, “It’s alright.” 

“I like that you’re here,” Griddle continued. “I did miss you Harrow.”

Nope, too far. “How pathetic for you.”

Griddle’s head came into view again. “You didn’t miss me? Not even a little?”

“Nav, I barely  _ remember _ about you most of the time.”

And that was the end of that. Until Griddle opened her big mouth again to say, “I’m glad you like the hoodie. I thought you’d die and be buried in the old one.”

Harrow wanted so desperately to say, ‘that was the plan’, but instead settled on a middle finger and more silence.

* * *

That night Harrow stared at her ceiling, counting the lines in the wood till her eyes burned. The evening had consisted of chores around the house and Harrow’s fingers were still pruny from scrubbing the miles of countertops. She had quite enjoyed Ianthe’s loud complaining as she got assigned to wipe down the porch railing, getting bit by a million bugs after refusing to put on bug spray. Corona, of course, got the job of settling the animals with the teens, and had enjoyed herself greatly. 

Harrow was rarely ever able to get a restful sleep, but tonight it was particularly elusive. She tossed and turned, still tucked into the hoodie despite sweat running down her back. She couldn’t stop hearing Gideon’s voice: “I did miss you Harrow.”

_ I missed you too, you utter moron. _

_ I thought about you, you piece of shit. _

_ You said you’d never leave and then you did, you stupid yellow-eyed idiot. _

_ I waited for you and you never came back _ ,  _ you dumbass. _

Harrow gave up her mental berating and decided if she was going to yell at Griddle she might as well do it in person. She made her way down the hall, already aware of which floorboards creaked when you stepped on them, and arrived at the door with a miniature sword hanging on it. The figure was barely larger than Harrow’s hand and was attached to a chain that had been painted red. It was so painstakingly ‘Gideon’ that it gave Harrow a migraine. She raised her fist to knock. 

Wait, what the fuck was she  _ doing _ ?!

Having this conversation with Gideon wasn’t an option! Harrow would be laughed at and ridiculed before she finished the phrase ‘I couldn’t live without you.’ How could she possibly explain the convoluted and twisted reasons leading up to their group home burning down? How could she possibly show the burns on her arm and explain why they were there? How could she possibly look Griddle in those golden eyes and say, ‘I lost you and it broke me’?

Harrow walked away. It was the only thing she was good at.


	5. Market I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a long wait for this. I have zero time management skills and it was tech week for the musical I was in. The disjointed mess that is this chapter was supposed to be longer but I felt bad about working so much on other fics and neglecting this one. But hey, Cam and Pal are here so all is well! And jealous Harrow is always a good plot point!

If Harrow had worried (newsflash, she had) that being at Fifth House would force her to spend unwarranted time with Griddle, the next few days proved her wrong. The ginger and her obnoxious golden eyes seemingly vanished from her life. The next day, when Harrow decided she’d give what Augustine called ‘being nice’ a try, Griddle was gone the whole day. She spent her time in town doing something with Corona, which Harrow didn’t mind. The two airheads were perfect for each other anyway. What Harrow  _ did _ mind was being cooped up with Ianthe in the laundry room all day, doing most of the work while the Tridentarius acted like a spoiled princess. 

“But such cheap detergent will mess up my hair!” 

“Ianthe, your hair couldn't be more dead if you were a corpse.”

“But it’s not color protective either!”

“Again, corpse.”

“Harry, don’t judge me for caring about my appearance.”

“There are a multitude of other things I judge you about, don’t worry.”

Four hours of that. Harrow had been near homicidal by the time they’d folded the final load. And then Harrow had refolded it after catching Ianthe positioning the towels in lewd ways. 

Griddle and Corona had gotten home after dinner, and they were laughing about something that was probably not funny at all. Harrow had been curious enough to ask about what had kept them nearly all day, but stopped when Corona made a big deal about how ‘divine’ Gideon looked in her hockey uniform. 

“I’m guessing the game went well,” Harrow said when Gideon sat down.

“Game’s tomorrow; Marta and Judy just wanted a practice quick beforehand,” Gideon said quickly as she began devouring the ham Magnus had made. 

Harrow scoffed, picking at her bowl full of salad. Abigail was picking up her eating habits pretty quickly, which she appreciated. “Then what was the point of bringing Corona? Or did you just want an audience to stroke your ego the whole way home?”

“I needed someone to help carry my stuff, and she offered”—Gideon smiled, which was disgusting considering she was chewing—“And yeah, the ego stroking was pretty nice too.”

Harrow rolled her eyes. “I was under the assumption that while I served my time here I was to be essentially conjoined to you.”

Gideon paused for a second and looked at her,  _ intently _ looked at her. “Nonagesimus, are you jealous I spent the day with Coronabeth?”

“That would require a level of care for your daily activities and life that I simply do not possess, Griddle,” Harrow said as scathingly as possible. The ginger dropped the subject thankfully, and went on to babble about whatever to the rest of the table’s occupants. 

The next day Griddle and Coronabeth were gone again, this time with Jeannemary as well. Despite four other occupants in the house, the place felt empty with the three most rambunctious members being absent. Harrow wasn’t paired with Ianthe again, thank God, and instead was tasked with helping Isaac with the horses. The teen must have been given a lecture by Abigail because he didn’t pester too much about the cult or anything else involving Harrow’s past. His only comment was, “Gideon said if I was curious about your life I should ask you upfront. Did you ever see anyone die in your cult?”

“No,” Harrow lied. “Why did you ask Gideon about me?”

Isaac shrugged from where he was brushing Colum. “You two were raised together; I figured she’d know something. She said she didn’t though.”

_ That was weird, _ Harrow thought later while picking hay from her clothes.  _ Griddle knows everything about what happened to my family within the cult. Why wouldn’ she blab to Isaac? She must have forgotten. I guess I wasn’t as memorable to her as I assumed.  _

When Gideon, Corona, and Jeannemary returned that evening, high on the victory of Gideon’s team winning, Harrow made a point not to care. Unfortunately, Corona did enough caring for ten thousand people, even going as far as to ask if Griddle wanted a massage. The amount of effort it took the redhead to say “Maybe another time” was Herculean, especially considering how much cleavage Corona was trying to thrust into her face. If Abigail and Magnus cared that a convicted delinquent was openly flirting with their daughter, they didn’t make any comments. 

“Tomorrow’s Sunday!” Jeannemary said excitedly. “I almost forgot!”

“Please don’t tell me you guys are hippie dippie church goers,” Ianthe drawled. “Not that I have an issue with the big dude in the sky, but I do prefer the good ‘ole days when worship meant a virgin sacrifice and a burning pyre.”

“I don’t think God would appreciate Harrow’s satanic ass as a sacrifice though,” Gideon quipped. Harrow kicked her under the table, but the Tridentarii howled like it was the funniest shit they’d ever heard in their lives. Both the teens hid their snickers behind messy hands, and even the two supposed ‘adults’ in the room smiled. 

“Besides,” Griddle continued, emboldened by the laughter, “Harrow’s all bones; she wouldn’t burn easily.” She nudged Harrow’s arm, toothy grin gleaming in the light. “You aren’t flammable, right Nonagesimus?”

The laughter stopped. Corona and Ianthe shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, eyes trained anywhere else but Harrow. Harrow who was suddenly back in that dark closet, trembling hands holding a lighter, the smell of gasoline leaking through the floorboards.  _ Strike it,  _ the voice inside her had urged.  _ No one wants you. She’s not coming back to save you. Strike it. Strike it! _

Harrow was up from the table and racing up the stairs like the inferno was on her heels before Abigail could finish saying, “Let’s change the subject.”

She didn’t even stick around to find out what was so damn special about Sunday.

* * *

Apparently what was so damn special about Sunday was that there was a marketplace. 

When Harrow woke up, Magnus, Griddle, and the teens had already left in the truck to start setting up Fifth House’s stand. The Tridentarii were groggy and laggy as they helped Abigail package baked goods and sort produce they planned to sell. Abigail was finishing stuffing sheep fleece into sellable bags as Harrow came down. 

“Good you’re up!” Abigail chirped. “Help Corona portion those strawberries and we’ll be leaving soon!”

Harrow stood at the counter with the ball of sunshine and watched as Corona carefully sorted the red fruit. Her one attempt to help was swatted away so Harrow stood there like a lump of bones. She took in Corona’s outfit and rolled her eyes so hard she must have twisted her optic nerve. The bubbly girl was ‘dressed’ in a flannel top—how she’d found a purple one Harrow didn’t know—that she’d tied up to show her stomach and unbuttoned to show her cleavage. She had sliced a pair of jeans into shorts that were so baggy they barely clung to her hips. Her skin was glowing as always, which pissed Harrow off more than the lack of clothes. 

When Corona noticed her observing, she flipped her hair and said, “Do I look good?”

“You look like a country hooker.”

“Perfect!” Corona finished with the strawberries and readjusted her top so her chest was more visible. “You think Gideon will like it?”

Harrow scoffed. “Why are you so interested in her? I thought your tastes ran more towards prep school dropouts?”

Corona smiled a bit whimsically and twirled a lock of hair. “She’s dashing isn’t she? And such a sweetheart.” She noticed Harrow’s disgusted face and mistook it for something else. “Oh! I’m not intruding on anything between you two, right?”

“Hell no!” 

“Oh thank God,” Corona laughed. “I was worried for a second. How awful would it be if the hot girl passed  _ me _ over for  _ you _ !” 

Before Harrow could take full offense for the insult, Abigail asked Corona to carry the produce out to the car. Ianthe finished with the baked goods and came over to annoy Harrow with a sullen, “You’re very protective of a girl you claim to hate.” 

“And your sister is very horny for a girl she just met. I think  _ that _ is far more concerning.”

Ianthe shrugged. “But it’s also normal. I’ve never seen  _ you _ care about anything though.”

Harrow was so tired of being attacked by large annoying women, but before she could commit murder and go back to jail, Abigail called that it was time to leave. 

Harrow hadn’t looked at what time she’d woken up, but the sun was barely in the sky as they drove the winding road and mountain tunnel into town. Corona sat up front with Abigail, happily flipping radio stations and fluffing up her hair. 

The market was set up in a large field off from the town. It was hard to miss how the emerald green landscape had turned into a clusterfuck of booths, vehicles, animals, and way too much flannel. The Fifth House stand was near the end by the mountain which cast a partial shadow over them. The teens and Griddle had set up four tables in an almost square: two in front and one on either side. The brown and gold canopy over them cast rays of darkened light on the dew soaked grass. Harrow’s ankles were instantly chilled by the wetness and she burrowed deeper into the hoodie. She’d rather go to church. 

“This is adorable!” Corona gushed as she stepped from the car. Isaac and Jeannemary both whistled when they saw her. Griddle’s jaw dropped for a second. Corona of course noticed, and with as much grace as a runway model, strutted over and instantly wrapped her long arms around Griddle’s neck, batting her overly mascaraed eyelashes. 

Griddle’s eyes briefly angled down Corona’s top then back up as her face slowly turned red. “Wow, I—uh—I mean thanks!” 

Satisfied with the stuttered response, Corona unwrapped herself and took in the booths around them. “It’s a lot smaller than I expected,” she said almost disappointedly. 

“The market goes for like half a mile!” Jeannemary butted in. “It stretches to the center of town! People are only just starting to set up.”

“At this ungodly hour of the morning,” Ianthe groaned, taking a seat in the open bed of the truck. 

Corona beamed her too white teeth at her prey. “Gideon, you’ll have to show us around later. I’m sure you know all sorts of fun places around here.” She punctuated this sentence with a deliberate and not at all discrete wink. Griddle flushed deeper and nodded moronically. 

_ Whatever,  _ Harrow thought.  _ Let the pretty morons fall in love and all that crap.  _ She was much more interested in the fancy booth setting up next to them. The glass displays being unloaded from a packed van held normal looking produce and baked goods. What was different were the signs advertising genetically enhanced fruit, specially formulated jam, and confections filled with scientifically created flavors. Harrow was intrigued and so she drifted closer to the stand. 

“So you’re the new Fifth House hands,” said a calm and collected voice from out of nowhere. Harrow turned face to face with a woman who was the definition of grey. Her skin to her hair to her eyes were all various shades of grey and brown. Her clothes were plain white and grey (of course) farm clothes with a stormy cloak pinned at her collarbone. Her eyes were flat and blank as she stared at Harrow. A stiff hand was extended and she gave a clipped, “Camilla Hect of Sixth House” as a greeting. 

“I’m Harrowhark. You’ve already deduced I’m with Fifth House.”

“Wasn’t hard. Gideon tells us everything. She hasn’t stopped babbling about you three.” Each of Camilla’s sentences was heavily punctuated with a period. Harrow respected that. Another person who understood the utter uselessness of excessive words. 

“Cam!” A male voice called from the van. Out popped another grey figure carrying a basket full of strawberries.  _ Giant _ strawberries. Harrow was so consumed with looking at the monstrous fruit she barely registered the greeting of, “Oh hello. Palamedes Sextus, pleasure to meet another Fifth House companion.”

“Yes, hi. What have you done to those strawberries?”

The man adjusted his glasses after setting down the fruit. He was dressed almost identical to Camilla and Harrow wondered if they were siblings. “Simple modification of their genome,” he explained. “To make them sweeter and with more juice. I have found most strawberries to be far too sour for my liking.” Harrow completely agreed with that line of thought, but was distracted by the book he took from his pocket. 

“Medical Practices of the Medieval Ages,” she read. “That’s an incredibly niche topic. Is it at all interesting?”

The man, Palamedes, looked between her and the book for a second, as if amazed she noticed. “Well, it’s not boring. But I have not found any ways in which the ancient barbaric acts of the Europeans could help scientific advancement today. I have a slew of literature regarding ancient medical practices if you’re ever interested.”

“Charmed, but if I wanted to read 400 pages about how the devil causes cancer I’d join the Westboro Baptist Church.”

Camilla snorted and Palamedes cracked a grin. “You must be Harrowhark. Gideon said you were a pistol,” he said with the steadiness of someone who was hoping you took their words as a compliment. “She mentioned you and your two companions, Ianthe and”—he glanced down at smeared pen marks on his palm—“Covidbeth.”

“That says ‘Coronabeth’,” Camilla said flatly. 

“Well how am I supposed to read this?”

“You could have  _ listened when I told you their names _ .” 

“Cam, you know I only pay attention to 70 percent of what you say when I’m prepping for the market.”

“70 is being incredibly gracious.” 

Harrow awkwardly stepped away from the bickering duo. Yep, definitely siblings; at the very least family of some kind. Ianthe and the teens were in their stand together setting out produce that looked sad compared to the monstrosities of Sixth House. Corona and Griddle were gone, the flashes of gold and red nowhere to be seen.

“I told Gideon she had to help set up,” Abigail was whispering to Magnus from beside the truck. Her voice was soft and quiet against the early morning bustle, obviously not meant for other ears. So of course Harrow paused to eavesdrop. 

“Let her and Corona have fun,” Magnus replied. “You said yourself she needs more friends.”

Abigail breathed gently. “I just hope she thinks and doesn’t get ahead of herself.”

“You saw how Corona was dressed. Gideon passed the point of no return already.”

“Magnus, sweetie, that isn’t helping.”

They were silent for a few seconds. “Abby, don’t worry about her. Corona seems like a decent kid. And besides, Gideon was so depressed about Harrow not warming back up to her, she could use someone who really likes her.”

Harrow backed out of their conversation then. More like backpedaled so hard she nearly fell over. Gideon had been depressed, over  _ her _ ?! Five years in the same group home, torturing each other daily, and  _ this _ was what pushed Griddle’s buttons? Them not instantly going back to their antagonistic ways? Harrow would never understand that moron’s mind. 

Ianthe was leaning over the table, lazily staring at the watch on her arm. “This is already the longest day of my life,” she drawled. 

Harrow swatted at a gnat hovering by her face. She loathed to agree with Ianthe on anything, and even in moments when she did she’d never say so. “Shut up Tridentarius. It’s been barely two hours since we woke up.” 

“Oh God, only two whole hours!” 

As Ianthe whined, Harrow caught sight of Corona’s golden form a few stands down. She was hanging onto Gideon’s arm, running a hand along her forearm and bicep. They were smiling about something and laughing. A strange glow was in Gideon’s gold eyes, reflecting the glow of Corona’s hair and makeup. Harrow wrapped her arms around her stomach, suddenly sick and queasy. Gideon certainly didn’t look depressed now.

_ “How awful would it be if the hot girl passed me over for you!”  _


End file.
